


The Book of Love

by downdeepinside



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: An extended metaphor that is so extended it went round the world twice, Fluff, Love, M/M, Romance, The Book of Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:57:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/downdeepinside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For generations the Holmes' have been estranged - seemingly incapable of loving anything or anyone.</p><p>But then, along comes Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>And then, along comes John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Book of Love

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on 'The Book of Love' by Peter Gabriel. 
> 
> I wasn't lying in the tags - this metaphor is taken for one hell of a ride. 
> 
> I hope you like it and comments and kudos are very much appreciated :-)

_"The book of love is long and boring  
No one can lift the damn thing." - Peter Gabriel._

***

It is a secret the Holmes family have kept for many years. They have passed its thick leather covers and its delicate silk pages from son to son, daughter to daughter, household to household. Not one of them has ever been sure of its origin; the front cover reads four simple words and simply the prospect of what it could be is enough to prevent a single Holmes from opening it.

The cover of the book, ageing leather that flakes from where it has stood on many book cases over the years, is simple. The title digs into what would otherwise be perfectly smooth leather, golden letters in what could very well be a child’s writing if it were possible that a child could write with such force. “The Book of Love”, it reads. The book in its self is a contradiction. It claims to be a book of love and yet it has been treated with anything but – there are even tails that during the second world war Richard Holmes used it to strengthen his air raid shelter, forcing it into the outer wall and praying for a bomb to hit it. When it persisted in existing he tossed it to his son – thirteen at the time – and declared that it would be more convenient if Sherrinford kept it from now on. Apparently it was beneficial to have the two biggest burdens of his life together.

At the age of twenty one Mycroft was given the book by his father. He kept it in his own persona; library, stored under ‘U’ for writer ‘Unknown’. He never opened the book, nor touched it unnecessarily so, but he always ensured it stayed in his home. Always within his possession. That is, he kept it, until his brother turned 32.

***

Sherlock sits in his usual chair, his hands below his chin as if he is praying. Perhaps he is, given the current situation it would be understandable.

Across from him his brother is perched – not sat, Mycroft never sits for fear of appearing too ordinary – on John’s chair. John’s armchair: The chair John sits in when he’s tired and just wants a cup of tea, the chair John sits in to watch doctor who, and the chair John sits in when Sherlock’s rattling off a deduction and he’s too bewildered to say much more than what is obvious. It ruffles Sherlock’s feathers to see his brother sat in John’s chair, but to express this would involve seeming a little too much like someone who gives a dam. So instead he stays quiet.

Strangely, neither brother has spoken a word in the previous ten minutes of being in each other’s presence. While it isn’t rare for Sherlock to ignore his brother completely and choose to remain mute for the entirety of his visit, it is rare for Mycroft. The British government does so _love_ to torment his brother.

Sherlock is preparing to make a fat joke - something along the lines of “Mycroft, you’re clearly so preoccupied by the thought of cake that you’ve lost the ability to talk” – when Mycroft pulls an item from his leather briefcase. It is not a case as Sherlock had expected, but a book. It takes the detective all of three seconds to recognise said book. He wants to ask Mycroft a question but is suddenly frightened to break the silence, and so he instead watches as the book is placed on the table.

“I take it, you recognise this?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply; because of course he recognises it. ‘The Book of Love’. Passed down to the oldest Holmes of each generation, never opened. Never loved. Much like most of the Holmes family themselves, really. It is only too late Sherlock realises the reply he was forming never came – and he realises his mouth is hanging open much like Lestrade’s the first time he offered up a deduction. He tries to form a response again, although his voice is strung out and much squeakier than he’d have liked. “Why is it here?”

Mycroft makes no quip about how the man should deduce it himself, instead he leans forward and places a hand flush on the front cover of the book. “A book with a thick leather cover that has survived – what? – a thousand years? A book with pages that appear to be silk, and very well may be. A book that claims to be _the_ book of love. And not a single Holmes has opened it.” A silence rings out across the flat and Sherlock swallows audibly.

“Perhaps if it had been given to the Watsons, or Lestrades, of the plain old Smiths, it would have. And perhaps it would have been read. And its words would have been sung out for the whole of humanity to hear. Instead, it has been lugged around for years, treated as a weight that cannot be lost.” A beat, Mycroft smiles grimly, “He who carries the heavy load is not strongest, Sherlock. Not if he doesn’t need to carry it.”

Sherlock scowls, his initial incredulity making way for slight irritation as his brother talks in riddles with that superior whine to his voice. “I asked why it is _here_ , Mycroft.”

Mycroft carries on as if his brother had never spoken. “It is not _strong_ to carry a load you needn’t. It is not _better_ to keep a book from being read. And it is not _brave_ to refuse to glimpse at something because you’re afraid it might be beyond you. We have been foolish, brother dear. We were given the greatest secret of all and we kept it to ourselves – and oh, did we suffer for it. Father to father to father, passing on this love when we couldn’t form any ourselves. This book was wasted on us.”

Mycroft leans back a little, lifting his hand and gently nudging the end closest to him so it moves towards Sherlock, a clear offering. “But _you_.” His face breaks into a smile and Sherlock finds himself flabbergasted for the second time in one day. It is a real smile, a smile that Sherlock hasn’t seen on his brother’s face since the man was seven, but it is real. “You have never done what people expect you to – least of all what _family_ expect you to. And while I am certain you are far from fearless you are much more brave than I will ever be.

“I think… I think if any member of the Holmes family is capable of finding love, it’s you. In fact, I think you’re already found it. And I think if any Holmes is capable of reading this book, it’s you. Provided he’s by your side, brother – it’s you.”

Sherlock remains quiet; watching the book like a young girl would a spider. His voice is a whisper that barley he registers, but Mycroft has always been able to lip read. “He?”

“You know who.”

Sherlock lifts his chin in a nod, because he does. His and Mycroft’s thoughts are audible and both eco the same name; _John_.

***

And so, the book is passed onto Sherlock. And for once it is not stored in a library, hidden cunningly among other books, but folded in a cloth and lightly pushed under his bed. And the book remains there, hidden but always palpable. Until one day, when Sherlock is 34 and John is 41.

One day the book is pulled from beneath the bed, and unwrapped as if it may break simply upon seeing the light. The front cover is lifted and the pages, Sherlock discovers, truly are silk.

And with a Watson by his side, a Holmes finally, reads the book.


End file.
